Sort of a Protest Story
by bj
Summary: "I'm tired of walking around with my hand on my gun. I'm tired of watching them wind you up to see if you'll run." S/J
1. I: Fireman in a Time of Fires: Incident

Disclaimer: 'The West Wing' and all related materials are the sole property of Aaron Sorkin, NBC, and various other organisations. I am in no way affiliated with them, and I get nothing out of this but my own sick pleasure. Please don't sue me. Titles (sorta) and summary from "Sort of a Protest Song" by the Matthew Good Band, which is on the album "The Audio of Being."  
  
Author's Note: This story is slash (that means it has content of a sexual/romantic nature between two characters of the same gender, in this case Sam and Josh). If you don't like slash, don't read this. If you read this anyway, don't complain to me, because I like slash, and you'll get no sympathy.  
  
  
  
Sort of a Protest Story  
  
By BJ Garrett  
  
  
  
I: Fireman in a Time of Fires: Incident  
  
  
  
I'm sitting on the floor at the end of my bed, surfing spinelessly through television waves. He lays on the bed, arms around my neck from above, cheek resting on the top of my head. I don't cuddle. Except with him. The look on his face sometimes-it convinces me that a need for personal space cannot outweigh his desire for physical contact of a non-sexual nature.  
  
He makes a noise, something between a sigh and a purr.  
  
There's the noises too, I guess. The noises are cute.  
  
"It's kind of funny," he says slowly, "I wanted to be a fireman."  
  
I fail to see the funny in that, but give an affirmative shrug. His forearms rub my earlobes, an interesting friction.  
  
"And you wanted to be a ballerina."  
  
"I didn't know what it meant," I say wearily, for the nth time today.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
He chuckles and drops his arms, moves over, rests his cheek on my shoulder.  
  
"But I'm the gay one," he adds in a whisper, still trying to joke, not fully succeeding in hiding a note of sadness.  
  
I don't know what to say. I never do. I'm never sure if he intends for me to hear when he says these things. I'm not sure what it means if he doesn't.  
  
"Well," I say, far too loudly to be speaking to one man twined around my neck like a scarf, "I think it's time we turned in, Billy Blazes."  
  
With an elaborate gesture, I turn the television off. My arm drops back to my lap.  
  
He grips my shoulders and presses his lips against my jaw. "I *am* a fireman," he says. "I put you out."  
  
And it kills me every time I realise he thinks I'm not grateful.  
  
  
  
End incident. 


	2. Notes A: Chorus

Disclaimers in part one.  
  
  
  
Notes A: Chorus  
  
  
  
All of a sudden, he's tired.  
  
He's tired.  
  
Doesn't he notice, doesn't he care, I've got circles under my eyes and my neck aches so I can hardly nod. Sleep is like a foreign planet.  
  
But he's tired, so let's call the National Guard.  
  
I react badly to his declaration of tiredness, and he exclaims that he's leaving, he's going out, he's going to find someone who doesn't need his existence to validate their own.  
  
He's going out.  
  
And what can I do? What can I do but yell and say fine, and watch him go?  
  
It's not like I've never done this to him.  
  
It's not. It's not like he's never stared at me with hurt in his eyes the next morning, wondering who I was with.  
  
He's tired.  
  
  
  
End notes. 


	3. II: A Robot Heart: Incident

Disclaimers in part one.  
  
  
  
II: A Robot Heart: Incident  
  
  
  
He collapses on top of me, sweaty chest to sweaty back, burrows his nose between my head and my shoulder. Sighs ever so deeply, the inhalation pressing me into the bed.  
  
Ever since I was shot  
  
silence cocoons me, the movement and terror of a large group of people are somehow separate from the universe I inhabit in the universe I inhabit there is only the thumping of my heart under my hand and the piercing scream of sirens in my popping ears  
  
I've had trouble having sex face to face.  
  
I don't want him-anyone to see the scar. It didn't happen if he doesn't look.  
  
I don't want him to see it and know that I'm not invincible. I don't want him to touch it with trembling fingers, kiss it, ask if it hurts. It doesn't hurt.  
  
I hurt. The scar is just flesh that doesn't know it's dead, hiding a heart that keeps grabbing my blood and thrusting it away no matter how often I tell it to stop.  
  
I don't like my heart. It's all broken and irregular and the tissues don't match.  
  
It does the job though. It's slaving away inside me. I wish my heart would become self-aware, want its freedom. Just push its hardening veins up through the edges of the scar, throw my chest open, and run.  
  
He rolls off me, onto his back. I turn my head, just to watch his profile as he falls asleep, watch his chin fall forward, jaw go slack. As if he were dying.  
  
But he doesn't fall asleep. He stares at the ceiling for awhile, and then looks at me. There's a knowing in his eyes I've never seen before.  
  
"When you look at me like that," he says softly, and I feel my face go blank in self-defence. "When you look at me like that--like I'm standing in front of something terrible, blocking your view, and you want me out of the way--when you look at me like that, I hate you."  
  
  
  
End incident. 


	4. Notes B: Chorus

Disclaimers in part one.  
  
  
  
Notes B: Chorus  
  
  
  
He's tired.  
  
He's going out.  
  
He's tired.  
  
It's the same as before, slight variations in expression, wording, and gestures.  
  
He goes.  
  
  
  
End notes. 


	5. III: Whatever Keeps Us: Incident

Disclaimers in part one.  
  
  
  
III: Whatever Keeps Us: Trado  
  
  
  
"I love you."  
  
Or so he says.  
  
"The life we're living is okay. It's okay."  
  
Or so I say.  
  
We lie to each other.  
  
I wonder who started it.  
  
  
  
End incident. 


	6. Notes C: Chorus

Disclaimers in part one.  
  
  
  
Notes C: Chorus  
  
  
  
The lights are different sometimes, the lights are red or green or the yellow of old gold, doubloons in a pirate's chest.  
  
There is no gold in my chest. I'm all broken, and patched, and stitched awkwardly back together.  
  
"I can't talk to you right now," he says, putting on his coat as I come in the door. "You go back out that door, I'm leaving."  
  
There is a why in my posture.  
  
"I'm tired of waiting for you to go off. I'm tired of waiting for everything to settle down so I can go off. I'm going out, and I'm going to have fun, and you can just be the one wondering for once."  
  
There is hesitant, wary, okay, in my expression.  
  
I go back out the door, he locks up, walks past me. Doesn't even look back to see what I'm doing.  
  
He knows.  
  
I'm just standing there, waiting for him.  
  
And the chords peter out, and the violins stop. The double bass lasts a little longer, but that's all.  
  
That's all.  
  
There's no way to stop this. There is no protest.  
  
  
  
End notes.  
  
  
  
End. 


End file.
